


The Boy

by illyriantremors



Series: Shadowsinger: An Azriel/Moriel Fic [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Childhood, Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 13:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8015440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illyriantremors/pseuds/illyriantremors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the first part of a larger fic that will chronicle the life of Azriel from the time he was young up until he and Morrigan confront their relationship in a would-be ACOTAR3. This chapter is really more like a prologue as it's rather short and written in third person unlike the rest of the fic, but it details Azriel's life as a kid with his father and step-family and how horribly miserable living in his cell was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Azriel has come to mean a lot to me as a character, which is why I've decided to write this sort of "in the life of" fic about him. I really wanted to work through his psyche and get to know him better. I will warn you this fic is eventually going to later on show some very intense and graphic moments of violence and heartbreak, so please read on with caution.

All the boy knew was darkness. Darkness, and silence.

Just one hour a day. That’s all he got. The air was so chilling each time they dragged him outside, he almost wished he was back in that all consuming darkness rather than suffer the freezing heartache of the Illyrian mountains. Almost wished, but then the wind would creep up to kiss his cheek and his muscles would tighten in a sort of cruel call and response he couldn’t complete.

Pain ripples across his back as he falls forward at the force of his brothers knocking him down. Hands grab his shoulders roughly and drag him across dirt and gravel towards a pole in the middle of the yard where his hands are bound and his wings are strapped down.

His wings.

Each kiss of the wind against the membranes sends his blood running. There’s a stretch of grass that slopes downwards not more than fifty feet off, just enough for a running start.

Leftover mist from the early morning dew tingles against his skin as his body adjusts to the sensation of freezing. The wind fits easily between his shirt made of holes. He has no idea what this weather means for flying, but he could do it. Break the ropes and run for all his fragile bones are worth until he’s airborne, his wings a savior keeping him from his family’s call to death.

But he’d never make it and that’s what makes him stay. They know it too. His half-brothers and step-mother. Even his father knows it and worst of all, he doesn’t care. None of them do. The boy isn’t sure even he cares anymore. One step towards freedom and he would die, lost forever in treacherous Illyrian woods unable to fly above. Maybe it would be worth it if it meant escaping the hell-hole he lives in.

For an hour each day, the boy’s heart fights with what his body demands he do and what his mind begs he doesn’t. It’s an effort not to cry, but he won’t give his family another arrow to notch in the bow that’s eternally pointed at his head. Again, he wonders, if it would be a relief to let the arrow snap and feel his life break a final time.

Just when he thinks he can’t take sitting in the bitter winter air for another moment, that he might go mad from staring at the future he craves knowing he can’t have any of it, the ropes are cut free and he’s being dragged back to his cell. Overwhelming instincts to fight and kick surge up in the boy’s blood dominating every twitch of his nerves until he’s lost all control. He’ll do anything to avoid going back to that cell. Anything to stay outdoors where his body belongs and daydream his life away thinking about the wind flowing beneath his wings.

His brothers grunt, surprised at the days the boy actually puts thought into motion and tries. But they are stronger than him. Much stronger. One set of hands holds him down while another connects with his nose, his gut. Blood sprays the hard dirt on which he’s been thrown. His brothers laugh cruelly.

Even worse are the days where he’s taken outside and met with the kind, worried face of the woman who bore him. She’s allowed only a hour with him not more than once a month - or at least, he thinks it’s a month. He can never be sure he’s kept track of time properly while he wastes away in his cell. No one ever bothers to tell him the time.

His mother sits with him at that pole, the only time he’s allowed out unbound, but she knows the truth. For an hour, she soothes him, offers him brief moments of sanity that he would almost rather do without because time slips just as quickly, if not faster, in good company and pretty soon, she’s ripped away from him along with those sunsets he longs for.

But it’s hope. Not much. Just a small slice to take with him. But it’s enough to keep him breathing, keep from going to meet his death in those woods. A reminder that good things are out there if he’s ever brave enough one day to go and find them.

And then the darkness slams down on him and he’s questioning if any of it was real. The promise of a future feels broken, the good things burned up in the light of the sun he’s barred from.

For several heartbeats, his body is a blaze of panic and thrashing. He refuses to open his eyes because if he keeps them shut, he can imagine there’s sunlight all around him just waiting for him to wake up. He’s never felt the sun before. Not really. The cold always make the orb so high in the sky seem far, far away.

He gropes in the darkness, his hands searching for something to hold on to and finding nothing, so he grips them in tight fists at his sides instead, enough so that the nails dig in at the skin of his smooth palms until they slice open and little rivulets of blood trickle down onto the cement floor.

When his mind has honed in on that pain in his hands enough to slow down, his heart finally begins to slow its pace. Deep breathes force air in and out of his lungs until he remembers how to breathe without forcing it. He opens his eyes.

It is so dark, he can’t tell the difference from when his eyes were closed. And it’s cold, mercilessly so, but no one ever thinks to bring him a blanket. The eternal game of which is warmer - in here or out there - wages on.

The boy crawls along the unrelenting cement floor until he finds his cot. He pulls himself atop it with what little strength his atrophied muscles will give him and folds in on himself. The tears are allowed to flow at last.

He fears the darkness. He dies in it. Over and over again, day after day for eight years, he has lived with it. Learned to call his worst enemy friend because it is the only one he knows who doesn’t talk back to him like his half-family does when he murmurs his deepest hopes and desires into the silence of that room.

When the shivering ceases and the tears dry up, the boy hugs himself more tightly and allows sleep to take him over, hoping he won’t ever wake up.


End file.
